"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part XIII: Sheems I've Loscht My Quiche, Part I"
The doorbell kept ringing despite the fact that it was four in the morning. What was almost as strange as this was the fact that Agents Johnson and Jackson lay on the floor, their eyes glued to a documentary special on Dell Computers.
The Dell Computer will stalk its prey long into the night. It is an emailovore and will consume as many as 6,000 Facebook posts per day. Watch how this female Dell retracts into herself as she approaches her suitors—Microsoft and Office Word, who will now compete for the right to mate.
They begin by circling each other. Microsoft lashes out first with an incompatibility message. Office Word recovers the document quickly. Yet Microsoft brings the fatal blow: the twenty-five character key, a code so venomous it will crash any system within a closed network.
Office Word falls without a sound. The victorious Microsoft and the female Dell will mate in an intricate downloading dance—
"Answer the door for me, willya," said Johnson tiredly.
Jackson opened the door and stood as still as stone. The sight of Agent Grey dressed in a Girl Scout uniform burned with the gold dawn rising in the doorway. He wore a green beret that kept slipping into his eyes, as well as his suit underneath, but had a skin-tight plaid skirt stretched over it.
Jackson died twice from the very sight of it.
"Good morning," said Grey, studying an index card glued to his left palm,"sir slash ma'am. How are you today? I am selling cookies to benefit my Brownie Troops."
"What the hell are you doing?" Jackson said.
Grey sniffed, his eyes growing wide beneath his sunglasses. "Don't...don't you want a cookie?" he asked, his jutting bottom lip trembling slightly.
"Grey," Jackson said. "How many other houses have you visited so far?"
"Just my own," said Grey.
"Grey," stated Jackson, a sober look cut across the lines on his bored, blank face. "Tell me you did not buy all the cookies for yourself."
"N—no," Grey said, looking down at his shiny black Mary Janes.
Jackson tapped his foot. "Grey."
Grey sprung atop his wagon of cookies, tearing the boxes open. "No one shall have the cookies but me!" he shrilled. "Me! Mine! Alone—I—I'm so alone!"
He wailed from atop the mountain of empty cookie boxes, using the last cookie left as a Kleenex. Then, seeing a delicious cookie before him, he wolfed it down. Then, seeing that he now longer had a cookie, he wailed some more.
Jackson closed the door. A crash sounded, along with a series of unbroken screams as a dog sniffed the empty contents of the cookie boxes and was now holding Grey at gunpoint, demanding to know where the peanut butter swirl was.
"I heard incoherent screaming. Who was at the door?" Johnson said.
"Telemarketer," said Jackson.
Smith sat in a large black leather chair from behind the desk. His heavily-ringed hands were clasped together, and from the shadows of the black window-blinds he appeared prominent and deep in thought.
"What do you wish of the Don Smith," he said, squinting, "on this, the day of his daughter's wedding?"
The chair spun around. A drunken Jones kept turning the chair while another drunken Brown kept playing the dramatic trumpet music. Smith might also have been drunk, but, it seemed to Johnson that Smith's abnormalities only showed through when he was sober. Thus, when he went to the doctor's office, his blood results came back as: "So smashed David Hasselhoff took one look and said, Daaaaaaaamn."
"Uhm...Thompson didn't come back," said Johnson. "And Grey got mugged by a poodle this morning."
"Let me get this straight. You need a new, competent Agent on your—" said Smith, craning his neck as far as it would go as he spun. "—team, since Thompson married Pace and now they're spending their honeymoon at—speech therapy, where they'll be alone, 'cause no one knows what the hell they're saying anyway—well, well, Johnson, if the Don Smith might say so, this is quite an interesting—" He folded his arms and glared at the air as Jones spun him around again. "—this is quite an interesting ordeal you have here. But what's in it for the Don Smith? Should the Don Smith grant you your favor on this—the day of his daughter's wedding?"
"You have a daughter?" said Johnson.
"No," said Smith. "My sister does."
"You have a sister?"
"No. I meant my sister," said Smith, "who is also my wife."
Jones stopped turning the chair for a minute to register this. Then, shrugging just as the grinning Agent began to get up, he pushed Smith back in the chair and spun it once again.
Glowering, Smith flipped him off.
"In any case, I say don't worry about it. I'll make your new team member an offer he can't refuse," said Smith, turning around again. "For the love of God, Jones, you can stop whirling me around in the chair now! I'm getting d—"
He stumbled, bent down, threw up beneath the desk, got up, sat back in the chair, folded his arms and whirled some more.
Suffice to say, the search for any new potential Agent was bound to be a difficult one.
"CURVE THE BULLET, DAMMIT!" Angelina Jolie screeched before jumping out of the seven-story window while making ten movies out of the motion.
Horrendously difficult.
Johnson and Jackson glanced at each other, about to leave to catch their daily documentary special on the commercial-mallward migration patterns of Wi-Fi, when all of a sudden a somber-looking man in a black suit sauntered in. Johnson looked at Jackson, who shrugged. He looked the part—did he play the part?
"And you are?" Jackson said.
"I'm Bond," said the Agent. "Jamesh Bond."
Jackson proceeded to bang his head directly against the hardest wall that would stand up to the force of his volatile head-banging—namely, the Great Wall of China.
Johnson blinked.
"Oh, shit," said Jamesh Bond, suddenly remembering something. "I'll be right back. It sheems I've loscht my quiche."
"Your what?"
"My quiche," said Bond.
Johnson squinted. "You lost your...quiche?"
"No, no, no, you're shaying it all wrong! Why are you talking like that?" Bond shrilled, patting his pockets. "My KEYSH! I loscht the KEYSH to my SHUBARU! Man, M ish gonna be sho PISHED OFF when I get home!"
And Agent Johnson threw Agent 007 out the window.
Two hours later, Johnson cupped the ruddy skin of his forehead throbbing in his palm.
"But I am," Thomas affirmed. "I'm an Agent. I got a license to kill. See?"
He pulled out a small plastic card and held it out in front of him expectantly. Johnson looked once at it. "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD," he shrieked, pulling out his hair by the roots, "THIS IS A FUCKING FISHING LICENSE!"
"MURDER!" Thomas shrieked, now finding it very professional to do so, per Johnson's example. "THINK OF ALL THE POOR FISHIES WHO GO MISSING EVERY DAY! WHERE'S THE CPS FOR THEM, HUH? THINK OF THE FISHIES, MAN, THINK OF THE FISHIES! WE FISH AND WE FISH AND WE TELL FISH STORIES THAT AREN'T EVEN TRUE, 'CAUSE IT WAS REALLY THIS BIG, I DUNNO WHAT'CHU TALKIN' 'BOUT, WILLIS—OH, THE FISHY INHUMANITY!"
"NEO!" Morpheus screamed, spotting him.
"WHAT?"
"DID YOU TAPE CSI FOR ME?" he shouted, despite the fact that they were sitting side-by-side in the audition waiting room.
"NO!"
"DAMN IT!"
"WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?" Thomas shrilled. "BONES IS FAR COOLER THAN CSI ANYWAY!"
"YOU TAKE THAT BACK OR I'M OPENING A CAN OF WHOOP-ASS!"
"Uh-oh," said Trinity, remembering the Chuck Norris horror and subsequently diving behind the nearest bush.
"OOOOOO, BIG THREAT, BIG MAN, I'M WETTING MY PANTS RIGHT NOW!" Thomas taunted...then, looking down, concluded: "'Kay, I'll give you that one."
And Johnson shot himself in the head to escape the sheer insanity.
To be continued...dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnnn!